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In the delusional world of Toronto Maple Leaf hockey, even a middling mook such as Kyle Wellwood can be transformed into marquee flashy guy.

The young man – officially anointed "The Smart One'' by team chroniclers because he reads some and apparently still doesn't own a TV set – has long had a vocal booster section, primarily on Coach's Corner, where Don Cherry repeatedly and tiresomely impugned ex-Leaf bench boss Pat Quinn for not sharing in the love.

Wellwood is blessed with soft hands and creative puck instinct in the offensive zone but he is almost completely a one-dimensional player and even those dimensions have shrunk alarmingly – which can't be entirely attributed to the twin hernia operations he's endured.

On Tuesday, the forward was a healthy scratch and there were rumours yesterday of pending demotion to the minors. Nyuh-uh, insists GM John Ferguson, while clearly implying that a message has been sent. "We expect more. We know he's capable of more. This is an opportunity for him to take a step back, to see where he's at.''

Wellwood has already taken a step back. He's regressed. The Leafs, however, at least for public consumption, appear conflicted – simultaneously attempting to jolt Wellwood into more conscientious and muscular performance while leery of crushing the kid. "This is not a reflection of what the organization thinks of him as a future player.''

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Such an approach is typical of a franchise that seems incapable of bold intervention and decisive corrective action. There's precious little accountability, with excuses and exculpations the Leaf lingua franca.

Ferguson rejects that criticism. "In this business, you get feedback all the time. It comes in the result of every game we play.''

Wellwood, along with other younger Leafs – except none are very green and scrubeenie anymore – have been treated with excessive gentleness in their prolonged adjustment to the NHL. It's as if they were dainty creatures – the Stajans and the Steens – overly praised on the nights they acquit themselves decently and usually protected from reproach on the more frequent nights when they don't.

It's as if an entitlement has settled upon the more youthful members of this club, itself an extension of franchise arrogance, where one win a fortnight is sufficient to quell anxiety and as you were, boys. This is evidenced in the dressing room, as well, where young pros without the chops to support such haughtiness can be witheringly snide and condescending to reporters. Where they learn such attitudes is a mystery because they certainly aren't emulating the class of a Mats Sundin or Tomas Kaberle.

Andrew Raycroft, as another example – though not so un-ripened – has been cut huge slack for his generally horrific performances between the pipes, nearly every opportunity to redeem himself ending badly and his presence back there clearly unsettling to teammates.

Yet, while Raycroft was nicely-nicely complimented for graciously declining to bitch about his stasis status, he never declines an opening to crack wry and weary about the vagaries of playing in Toronto, as if it were a burden.

What burden?

This is a cushy environment, compared with other cities, where stinky sports teams are not so casually tolerated. In New York recently, irate Knicks fans rallied outside Madison Square Garden, calling upon ownership to can coach Isiah Thomas. Under-achievers and chronic cock-ups from the hockey player ranks have been ridden out of town from coast to coast. In Montreal and Boston, they eat their young.

But in Toronto, fans and management, as if zoned out on Prozac, meekly accept third-liners masquerading as first-liners and readily ascribe to the nonsense that those "kids'' will come around, in time.

Time's up, babies.

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